Those pecs.
That scowly face that had almost smiled a few times.
Stop it, Grace.
I pulled up my reading app, determined to distract myself. The hero in my current book was a former Marine protecting a witness. He was gruff and terrible at communicating his feelings. The heroine was sassy and tested him at every turn. What would Garrett do if I got sassy with him?
Does it matter, Grace? Because if you tried, you’d blush so hard, and you’d probably apologize. And then you’d lock yourself in the bathroom because you wouldn’t be able to face him.
I shifted from staring at the door to my novel. After a couple of pages, my eyelids grew heavy, and the words began to blur. Maybe a nap instead. Maybe that was what I needed.
Chapter 12
Galahad
The Raven’sVigil was an old, classic British pub with dark wood paneling and brass fixtures gone slightly green at the edges. Arthur had recommended it for a reason—the front entrance was visible from most seats, had a back exit through the kitchen, and had lots of windows that let me monitor the street. It also had a few corner booths where Grace could show Dr. Caulfield the egg without prying eyes seeing it.
I’d positioned us in one of those booths, with a clear view of the entrance and the path into the kitchen. Grace sat beside me, and I wore the travel pack containing the egg, both of which I’d insisted on because they were decisions that made it easier to move us if we needed to leave fast.
She speared a fry with her fork and dipped it in her ramekin of mushy peas. “This is incredible. Why don’t we have fish and chips like this back home?”
“Different fish. Different potatoes.”
“It’s the vinegar.” She took another bite, closing her eyes as she chewed. “Malt vinegar is so much better than apple cider vinegar.”
My own plate was half-finished. The cod had a crispy batter and was sufficiently flaky inside, but eating wasn’t my priority.
Grace lifted her pint of Guinness, took a sip, and wrinkled her nose. “This, however, is way too strong. Want to trade?”
Part of me wanted to point out she’d insisted on ordering whatever was the most popular at the Vigil, and I’d warned her it would be strong. But I nodded toward my water. “I’m fine.”
“Right. Because hydration is a critical strategy.” She said it lightly, clearly teasing me. Her knee bounced under the table. Excitement, not nerves, she’d said. She’d been wired all morning.
It was a vast difference from last night. After my shower, I’d found her asleep on top of the covers, still in her hotel robe, with her phone on the duvet next to her hand. She must have fallen asleep reading, as she had on the jet. Maybe it was the shower or finally being in London, but she’d looked so peaceful it had made my chest ache. When she was awake, she was always moving, always smiling, always trying to make everything fine. But asleep, she was soft and gentle.
I’d stood there for too long, watching her. Wondering what it was like to be so fucking optimistic about everything. Had Ieverbeen like that? Probably when I was five or six? Before I’d registered what the real world was like?
Did it even matter?
I’d eventually pulled a throw blanket from the sitting room and draped it over her, careful not to wake her. That was the job: keep her safe, and once she was safe, make her comfortable.
The door opened, and a man stepped in who immediately scanned the crowd. Mid-fifties, brown hair graying at the temples, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt under a tweed vest and carrying a leather satchel over one shoulder. I recognized Dr. Caulfield from the photos I’d pulled up during last night’s research.
I raised a hand, and he spotted us, crossing the pub with an easy stride.
He extended his hand to Grace first. “Ms. Laurent? I’m Brandon Caulfield. A pleasure to meet you in person.”
Grace shook his hand, her smile bright. “Thank you so much for meeting us. This is Garrett Cruz. He’s handling security for the trip.”
Caulfield turned to me. Firm grip, dry palm, good eye contact. “Mr. Cruz.”
“Dr. Caulfield.” I released his hand, stood, and took off the padded case I’d worn across my body. “Let me give you some space.”
Caulfield slid into the seat across from her, setting his satchel beside him.
I handed her the case and stood by her side of the booth, angling my body to block observers while remaining part of the conversation. A server started in our direction. I caught her eye, gave a small shake of my head, and she redirected smoothly, moving to another booth.
“I must say,” Caulfield told Grace, “when Samantha first described what you might have, I was skeptical. These things usually turn out to be high-quality reproductions. The Fabergé workshops inspired countless imitators.” He leaned forward. “But the photographs you sent were intriguing.”
